


lilac wine (to thee, for thee)

by Byacolate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Dancing, Established Relationship, F/M, Oneshot, Slow Dancing, Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, entirely self-indulgent dance rejection fix-it, or Dance Rejection: Hacked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3517430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discomfiture sits like a stone in his belly, and he has neither the eloquence to express it nor the time to fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lilac wine (to thee, for thee)

“Oh.”

 

He can see her eyes shutter, and a guard goes up behind them he hasn‘t seen since Haven. It is then Cullen realizes exactly what he‘s done, but even as he hastens to explain himself, he fears it is far too late.

 

He has two left feet at best and no grace to speak of, but he thinks it may be a greater folly by far to have denied her thusly.

 

It is not the dancing he fears, but the failure.

 

She is not soft, not by far, but she is so terribly quiet when she tells him, “We‘ll talk later,” that all he can offer is a hopeless promise to await her signal in return before she is off and he... he, left with a lump of regret festering in his stomach.

 

It lasts through the evening in her absence. There are pockets of time in between pestering nobles where he leaves the reprieve of irritation to stew in it. It worsens by the hour as he reminds himself, not once, not twice, but at least as often as a new pair of eyes behind a mask sends simpering gazes in his direction, that he has lamented before on her stubbornness to ask anything of him. That in life he wishes to be a partner that might shoulder some of her burden, lend her his hand, offer the fullest extent of himself so that it might make her path easier - as much as he does in war. Ideally, _more_ so.

 

And what does he do with the first opportunity bestowed upon him, but spurn it and her with it. A fool twice over with no time to make amends. 

 

As the evening progresses he hears whispers, but he can‘t quite make them out until Leliana comes to hand him a drink and confirms that there‘s been fighting in the servants‘ quarters. She clicks her tongue when he sets the drink aside, but he did not intend to drink this night, regardless of which hand came baring the glass. And now his stomach _twists_.

 

He does not fear the fight, but the stakes for which the opponents play. Cullen is wary of the insidious machinations of The Game, far more than he would like to admit - and more still even than he does.

 

His concerns, quiet as they are, are laid to rest some time later when she sends a small group of men to pester him. For a moment, he thinks it might be a form of punishment well deserved, but when they ask him to regale the Inquisition‘s - the _Inquisitor_ ‘ _s_ \- glorious battles, it feels more like a reprieve. And the knot of guilt in his stomach tightens. But he realizes, once they‘ve sent enough furtive glances toward the door and excused themselves to _return to their post_ it was neither. A diversionary tactic, and nothing more.

 

 

It wasn’t personal.

 

 

Probably.

 

It‘s almost enough to distract him from his own paranoia. The whispering, the eyes, the talking that doesn't stop - the itch under his collar, the damp of sweat against his temples, always being watched, always under the thumb. He feels hunted and pressed too tightly and the collar is too tight, he shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t -

 

“Come watch,” floats a gentle voice by his ear, and Cullen startles, the heart in his throat choking out his reprimand. But Cole has already drifted from where he‘d manifested at Cullen‘s side to the balustrade, and for whatever reason, Cullen... Cullen sees fit to follow.

 

And where Cole leads, they find the Inquisitor dancing with the Grand Duchess, and she is _extraordinary_.

 

The dance is laughable, in the way most Orlesian pastimes are, but he has always been captivated by the way she moves. She does not share his lack of grace, the heavy-handed way he wields his sword and his words, but neither is she liquid movement. Her limbs seem impossibly long for how small she is, and to his eyes they are always in perfect control. She knows what she wants to do, and her body responds - free from the self-consciousness, the force and precision that guides every clumsy move Cullen makes. Though he has found them surprisingly similar-minded, he fears he will never know her ease of freedom in motion. Not in grace, but in comfort.

 

Josephine is beside herself about it, detaching from her sister to join Cullen and Leliana (and - no, but Cole has disappeared, and with him taken Cullen's rising panic). She understands the validation of the court far better than Cullen ever could, and it is quickly apparent that _these_ vapid smiles signal approval. Cullen could not care less what these people think of the Inquisitor, how they see her and what they believe they stand to gain for it; all he knows is that this is a performance. She dances with Orlesian royalty before all of these people because she must, and though he had once assumed she would find it as frivolous as he, she had asked him for a dance because she _wanted_ to.

 

”She is marvelous,” Josephine gasps. She means it in reference to how Lavellan plays the game, but Cullen finds himself agreeing for entirely different reasons.

 

Giddy as a schoolchild, Josephine is the first to reach the Inquisitor off the dance floor, nearly bowling her over with an excitable, “We should take you dancing more often!” and Cullen does not miss the way Lavellan does not meet his eyes as he and Leliana approach. Josephine sobers when the Inquisitor cuts through to the matter at hand, ever the voice of pragmatism, and before they have truly reached an accord she is off again and out of his sight. Discomfiture sits like a stone in his belly, and he has neither the eloquence to express it nor the time to fix it.

 

Rather unexpectedly, she sends an elven girl into his protection not long after, weaving with practiced ease around the tittering nobility. Round, dark eyes are full of fright, but her voice is low and her tone discrete when she tells him why she is there. Cullen is not one for catching the finer details, not like Leliana or Josephine might, but even he can see her hands are trembling, and he does not hesitate to usher her to his side.

 

This, at least, he can do. An objective and a purpose that is right and just. Cullen knows how to protect.

 

While he is not a sparkling conversationalist, the spy does not seek one in him. It seems as well that with an elven agent at his back, the following he’s attracted is somewhat more wary of idling in his personal space, and it is also in this way he is given reprieve.

 

It’s something he should thank the nervous young woman for, but he finds himself grateful to a different elf altogether.

 

His charge eases the evening in these small ways, but Cullen does not truly feel relief until he turns to find Lavellan in his sight, scrutinizing the royal family from afar. His feet take him swiftly to her. There is nothing in the Inquisitor's posture to suggest anything weighs on her mind beyond the critical choice laid before her; it is an example he should follow, but the application of this practicality eludes him.

 

“Thank the Maker you‘re back,” he murmurs. His nerves have been on edge the entire evening, and these brief, few glimpses of her make Cullen's rattled nerves begin to settle. To see her is to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that she is well and whole.

 

She leaves him then, again, forever moving forward at a pace so quick that the only moment he has to finally catch her again comes when she has made her escape from the ball.

 

Cullen has been waiting for a breath of fresh air himself, and the balcony is quiet. Flowers frame the bannister in a manner that is ornate, and though frivolously artful they are beautiful. However, they are not what he seeks in the soft blue light of early dawn. There are dark shadows under her eyes and the set of her shoulders tell him she would prefer a warm bed, but the ground would do just as well in a pinch for the sake of sleep. He was never one for comfort - he touches her shoulder when he wants to kiss her, and he denies her the simplest request when in truth he wants only to serve - but he can atone. Cullen knows the way of it. Or at least how to try.

 

The look on her face when he bends at the waist, hand outstretched, unravels the knot in his gut the tiniest bit. Her movements are slow, ever in control, and there is caution in the way she presses her fingertips to the center of his palm. For a moment she does not lift her eyes, but instead stares down. His fingers curl to enfold her small hand as carefully as he knows how, for she is not soft, but she is still dear to him and he fears she may not know it.

 

“I thought you didn’t dance,” she finally says when he stands straight once more, pulls her in closer.

 

And he does not, but for her, he will try. He stares down at his feet for a moment before he places his hands where he knows they should go, exactly where Josephine told him, and squeezes her hand.

 

“I‘m not one for dancing, either.” Finally, Lavellan meets his eyes, and though it is tentative, he can see something shift and unfurl behind them. The gates go up and he might as well be returning home. She doesn‘t smile but, “The Dalish never attended balls,” startles a laugh out of him.

 

They begin to move, she with ease, he following her steps, and as if to distract her from his fumbling he says, “I should not have - that is to say, before, when you asked, it was callous of me to -”

 

“You don‘t need to apologize to me for laying your boundaries.” She is leading him now, as she is wont to do, and Cullen finds he does not mind. “We aren’t at the war table, Cullen. This is personal. You should not have to sacrifice your comfort for the sake of my whims.”

 

“I have sacrificed more for far lesser a cause,” he says. It doesn’t sound right - not the way he wants it to - but the corners of her mouth twitch. Not for the first time, he cannot believe his fortune at finding a mind that follows the same jagged twists and turns as his. The lines she must read behind seem clear as day, if only he will see fit to lay them before her. For the sole reason that he can, Cullen leans in closer and taps his forehead to hers. There is no one around to hear, but he feels he must speak softly with all the reverence reserved for prayer - all the reverence he reserves for her. “And it is no sacrifice to be alone with you like this.”

 

She ducks her head, but not before he’s caught her smile.

 

”There‘s no music,” Lavellan says, perhaps because of the aimless fashion in which they turn about the balcony, and again laughter bubbles from Cullen’s chest.

 

He admits, “That‘s probably for the best. I would not care to prove how poor my rhythm truly is.”

 

For a time it is quiet, a tired and comfortable thing. He steps on her toes once, and his apologies are hushed by a quip that it would have only caused real harm had she been traditionally barefoot. Leliana will not approve of the scuff, but if Lavellan does not mind, then Cullen will face their spymaster's ire gladly at her side.

 

“Josephine couldn’t stop talking about how well you played the game,” he says, as surprised as ever that it is he breaking silences. He finds himself speaking, not to fill an unpleasant stillness, but for the simplest pleasure of hearing her voice, of having a moment that belongs only to them. She snorts, sleepy and amused.

 

“Her expectations were low coming in.”

 

“Perhaps,” Cullen says with a chuckle. He’d received much the same lecture as she. Be polite and smile. Lie through your teeth, if that is what it takes. And for Andraste’s sake, at least pretend you are pleased to be there. Everyone is. “But that does not make her wrong. You charmed them.”

 

“I only had to be evasive.”

 

“Easier said than done when you’re tossed into a pit of vipers.”

 

She makes a noise of agreement, shuffling to avoid his boot again. Cullen curses and pulls away to stare down at the movement of their feet together. They are slow enough, unhurried and arrhythmic without a single beat to dance to, and yet he cannot control his plodding. Looking only makes it worse, over-thinking each move and nearly causing her to stumble.

 

It is a small consolation to himself, but at least he is confident that he really can’t crush her toes within the safety of Leliana’s critical selection of footwear.

 

“This is twice as bad as I‘d thought,“ Cullen mutters, turning his eyes apologetically to her.

 

“It is,“ she agrees, and does not give him more than a second to feel ashamed before she pulls away. Confusion leaves no room for any other, less pleasant emotions when she forcefully tugs off one boot, and then another. They, along with her gloves, are tossed thoughtlessly toward the archway, and then she is returned to the circle of his arms. Her hands bypass their designated, appropriate posts to slide around his neck.  

 

Before he can fret over the bareness of her feet, she steps up to stand on his boots - not so light as a child might be, but light enough. Lavellan leans fully against him, sighing into the uncomfortable collar of his jacket, and declares, “This is better.”

 

“It is,” he finds himself repeating, arms tight about her waist.

 

Not in grace, but in comfort.

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Title from “This is My Hand” by My Brightest Diamond: _Like lilac wine pouring out to thee for thee / This is my shape / This is my form / This is my age / This is my frame / This is my mind / This is my voice / This is my heart / This is my choice_
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


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